M C HARDWICK "Sandalwood" That night they dined outside in the
hotel courtyard, surrounded by flamboyant flaming beauty and
the intoxicating fragrance of crape jasmine; the arched
quadrangle shimmered in the golden glow of burning lanterns
while the undulating vibrato of violin strings softened the
senses with sweet melodies. Anthony was glad to have
dispensed with his shorts proudly wearing the white jeans he
had hidden from his mother anxious she would have regarded
them as unsuitable for the English weather. Earlier Lily had
lightly drummed on his door with her slender fingers, a
gentle tapping sound accompanied by the faint scratch of her
long nails. It had reminded him of the bougainvillea that
caressed his bedroom window at night as he lay listening to
the movement of its twigs in the breeze. He had opened the
door and felt his stomach do that somersault thing again as
he took in her slim, sinuous figure wrapped in a black
cheongsam with a snaking pattern of cherry blossom. She had
let down her long, thick black hair and lifted one side with
a red blossom pin that had floated up from the hem to settle
on her delicate ear. Later, as he lay in bed, he remembered
nothing of the talk of their families or the menu they had
sampled that night, for all he could see was the movement of
her hands, the sleekness of her arms and the smoothness of
her neck in its mandarin collar surround. As they waited for
the lift to his bedroom she had stood gracefully under an
arch by a Tibetan cherry tree. The deep mahogany of their
twin skins in the shadowy half-light had produced a rapture
so unknown and unfamiliar that he had started at the ping of
the elevator. She had waited for him to change into his
pyjamas, tactfully pouring a drink of water for him from the
small fridge in the hallway, while he had stumbled and
struggled in the bathroom. Dismayed at the Spiderman design
he had jumped under the covers and lain there uncertainly as
she had turned out the main light and placed the glass by
his night table. When she sat down beside him she had
reached for his teddy that had been left undetected on the
floor; reluctantly he had taken it from her rolling over to
place it casually on the armchair the other side of his bed.
As he settled again she had smoothed back his fringe and
kissed him on the forehead bidding him the sweetest of
dreams. The shape of her lips and the slit of her
dress had all ready made him tremble, the tiniest toll of an
adolescent bell murmuring deeply from the pit of his tummy.
But this was nothing to the musky fragrance that had settled
around him as a lock of her hair had softly tickled the side
of his face. He had slyly widened his nostrils to capture
the aroma like a guilty thurifer addicted to his incense at
church. Then he had turned over and held his breath as she
left him, unwilling to lose the precious essence inside him
until at last he could hold on no longer. That night he awoke afraid of the
darkness and the dream that had disturbed him from his
sleep. He cried for his mother and yearned for her presence
knowing it was only in vain; finally he plucked up the
courage to call Lily’s number in fear that he was acting out
of turn. But she answered him tenderly and brought him back
to her room where she protectively insisted he nestle in her
bed and try to catch up with his sleep once more; meanwhile
she watched television with the volume turned low, her
willowy frame extended on the sofa not six feet from his
head. He basked in the calm of her soothing balm and he
slept. The next morning he awakened to the
gentle hum of the air conditioner, snugly warm under a sheet
and a blanket. Slowly he sensed that he was not alone as the
familiar bouquet that had ravaged his senses once again
enveloped his being. As he listened intently he realised she
was breathing behind him to a rhythm that indicated sleep.
He lay there in terror unsure of himself, aware that at any
moment she might wake; but as the minutes passed and she
remained in oblivion he relaxed and slowly turned to face
her. The blanket had been folded over for his benefit and
she lay on her back with only the sheet as a cover. She was
facing away, neck arched with dark hair streaming up over
the white pillow, the taut skin on her shoulders gleaming
like the polished bronzed sculpture of a recumbent madonna,
the rise of her breasts demurely protected from exposure. When she finally stirred he shut his eyes
in pretence of sleep, devout in his deception as she rose
and glided in her purity to the shower and the refuge of her
wardrobe. With a deep sigh Anthony sunk his head in her
pillow and allowed himself to be transported away. “Antoine, I swear you are the best nose
in the business and I think this might be your best yet!” “Madame is too kind,” replied the
perfumier, his accent more Powys than Paris. “So tell me, what was your inspiration
for this divine fragrance? No let me guess, is there a hint
of patchouli? Of bergamot perhaps, and yes maybe jasmine and
coriander? And sandalwood of course, always the sandalwood!
Hmm…it is complex is it not?” “Indeed, it has taken me a lifetime to
conceive this sensuous essence, one that I would humbly
agree, my lady, is beyond compare.” “And what will you call it?” “Eau de nenuphar,” he quietly confirmed. The end. Page 2/2 | <
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